


Strawberries for dinner

by Omi_Lightbearer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Food, Food Kink, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Lightbearer/pseuds/Omi_Lightbearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes to Baker St and finds Sherlock eating strawberries that he's got as a gift from a client. The sight turns him on more than he ever thought possible, and well... Set during HLV, sometime between Mary's attempt to kill Sherlock and the Christmas events. Story-consistent(ish).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberries for dinner

John closes the door behind him, walks into the living-room and is faced with a most unexpected sight, one that makes him stop in his tracks. He is tired. He always is these days; it is not physical exhaustion but the one that derives from trying not to think about what keeps driving him back to Baker Street —his stranger of a wife, the house he’s never felt comfortable in. He does go there, but he and Mary are not really talking and he can always find an excuse to return to Sherlock after work. The detective has just recovered from the bullet wound that almost killed him and seems to welcome John’s company. 

Aware that his jaw has dropped, John struggles to think, react, turn around or say something. Sherlock is sprawled on the sofa, dressed in his pyjama bottoms, t-shirt and blue dressing gown. His head is tilted back against a cushion and he is eating lazily. John looks at his fingers first, which are pressing a red juicy strawberry to his lips. He scans Sherlock’s surroundings quickly and spots a glass bowl on the floor beside the sofa, well within Sherlock’s reach. John’s eyes dart back to Sherlock’s mouth and the strawberry he is nibbling at, biting off just one little sliver at a time. It isn’t intentional. It can’t be. John wasn’t supposed to be at the apartment this early in the evening. His throat has gone dry as he watches Sherlock’s perfect lips wrap around the piece of fruit until it finally disappears into his mouth. John wishes he had made some noise as he came into the flat. But then, Sherlock often doesn’t notice his comings and goings.

Even if Sherlock is unaware that he looks like a Roman emperor on his divan, pondering over his conquests, expecting to be waited upon, he does. John doesn’t think he has ever felt jealous of a strawberry before, but he can’t help it. He takes in the dark curls, the alabaster skin, the elegant neck, the impossibly long fingers. He tries to keep his thoughts on a tight leash so that they don’t stray to Sherlock’s lips. It’s been a while since he last allowed himself to look at Sherlock this way. The little flame is always there, burning in the pit of his stomach, but he just doesn’t fuel it. Not even in dreams does he picture Sherlock doing the kind of thing he happens to be doing for real now.  

He must have made a sound because Sherlock has noticed his presence and is looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes. A second later, he has propped himself up on his elbows and is back to his usual self; he even smiles a little, apparently glad to see John. John tells himself that his friend is just sleepy and the sultry look a product of his imagination.

‘John,’ Sherlock greets him. John forces himself to move closer and act naturally.

‘You’re eating.’ Rather obvious, really. But it is news after all because Sherlock doesn’t eat much these days.

‘Strawberries. They’re a present from a client. You know I don’t enjoy accepting presents but she was the grandmotherly type, complete with garden, greenhouse and homegrown fruit. She wouldn’t let me go until I’d taken a box of strawberries. They are in season now, she said.’

‘It’s good you’re eating.’ John feels like slapping himself. He should be capable of a better reply.

‘It seems they can take my mind off smoking. May develop into a new addiction.’

‘I don’t think you can be addicted to strawberries,’ John smiles, shaking his head.

‘Try these ones before you speak.’

John casts a sidelong glance at the fruit bowl on the floor. He _is_ hungry, but he needs to take a deep breath before he can face the prospect of eating strawberries with Sherlock.

‘I’m going to wash my hands.’ He rushes into the bathroom and closes the door; then he opens the tap and splashes some water over his face. He needs to cool down really soon because he is all but sizzling inside. Sexual deprivation is to blame, no doubt; he is a healthy male who hasn’t touched another human being in two months, given that he and Mary aren’t even speaking. Of course he will be turned on by anything. But it’s not just _anything_. It’s Sherlock. John presses a towel to his face and groans softly. Whenever people ask him about his relationship with Sherlock and he denies being gay, a little voice at the back of his head reminds him that he is almost certainly Sherlock-sexual or, in other words, a mostly heterosexual man who totally loses it when he’s around his best friend. John tries not to think about Sherlock’s downcast eyes during the wedding. However beautiful his best man’s speech was, there had been sadness on his face. One could almost sense the missed opportunities, the unspoken words floating between them. He has made the wrong choice, John reminds himself, and getting a little too close to Sherlock now can’t fix that.

He emerges from the bathroom with the resolve to face the strawberries like a man and sit next to Sherlock like a mate would do. Friends. That’s what they are. Sherlock has sat up on the couch and the bowl is on his lap but he isn’t eating. He’s staring at John pointedly, as if waiting for him. John clears his throat and sits down at a reasonably safe distance, but close enough to reach for a piece of fruit. He does so and takes the strawberry to his mouth without ceremony. He tries to appear as careless as if he were eating crisps, but crisps are not this juicy and delicious. The flavour is sweet and slightly tangy, and his taste buds rejoice.

‘Really good,’ he mumbles.

‘I know.’ Sherlock is eating another one, eyes fixed on the wall opposite them.

‘I really wanted to have dinner first though. I haven’t eaten since noon.’    

Irene Adler asking Sherlock to have dinner with her comes to mind; John understood the implications then. The word “dinner” has never sounded the same to John since. He can’t believe he’s said that.

‘Who cares about real food?’ Sherlock’s lips curve upwards slightly.

John tilts his head and Sherlock’s eyes meet his. There is a spark in them. They look darker than ever, the blue irises merely thin circular bands around dilated pupils. His eyes are adjusting to the growing darkness in the room, surely? Sherlock is rather quiet. He bites another fat, bright red strawberry and practically sucks half in. John can’t look away. He needs to say something. If Sherlock were a woman, any woman he’d ever dated in his life, John would be seizing the other half with his teeth by now. He’d make it look romantic and sensual, and sex would follow. It’s out of the question, he reminds himself. He can’t risk it.

‘I can make them taste better,’ John blurts out. Oh, no. He isn’t going to do it, is he?

‘Better how? I doubt it.’ Sherlock is not adamant about it. He’s daring John to do something. He goddam _knows_.

‘Wait a second.’ John gets on his feet, heads to the kitchen and opens one of the few cupboards which are not full of Sherlock’s chemical products, one that actually contains edible things. John keeps a few emergency chocolate bars in it. Sherlock doesn’t care for them much but John is sure he can make an exception. He grabs a bowl from another cupboard and pops a dark chocolate bar in it; he then microwaves it for half a minute. They say chocolate is a substitute for sex after all. It will do him good, he tells himself. Of course, he knows it will only make matters worse.     

‘What is it?’ Sherlock leans forward and tilts his head up to have a look as John steps back into the sitting-room.

‘A chocolate dip. You have to try it at least,’ he said, anticipating Sherlock’s refusal.

‘They are perfect the way they are.’ It would be unlike him to comply without arguing a little. He can be such a child sometimes.

John says nothing. He sits down, grabs a strawberry and dips it into the bowl he’s holding in his other hand. He licks some of the melted chocolate off the tip before putting it into his mouth. The flavour is so perfect it’s almost sinful. He closes his eyes; it’s better not to look at Sherlock while he eats. A fingertip touching the corner of his mouth gently startles him. It lingers there for a second, then withdraws. John opens his eyes then, just in time to see Sherlock putting that same fingertip into his own mouth.

‘You had a little…’ Sherlock trails off, pointing at his jaw.

It’s a wonder John’s heart hasn’t stopped because he is expecting it to do it any minute. It’s practically pounding in his throat now and he is sure that the deafening sound can be heard from China. Mrs Hudson is going to think they are fighting criminals or CIA agents in the flat again. Sherlock doesn’t flirt like this. Not with anyone. Not ever. Is that even flirting? Does he know what he is doing? Sherlock’s expression is guarded; his eyes, on the contrary, are eager and expectant.

It’s up to him, John realizes. He can make the next move or not. Nothing bad will happen if he doesn’t; everything will be at a standstill, the way it’s always been. Or he can let himself be swept off his feet by Sherlock here and now. There is no time to think it through. Before he can stop himself, he picks up another strawberry from the bowl, coats it in chocolate and offers it to Sherlock, who looks surprised and rather pleased.

‘Give it a try,’ John says, his voice low and hoarse.

Instead of using his hands, Sherlock leans forward and takes it with his mouth. He has to be aware that this is sexy. He _has_ to. His lower lip brushes against John’s fingers and John can feel a few drops of sweat trickling down his neck and back. Sherlock averts his eyes as he backs off slightly and chews.

‘How is it?’ John asks, desperate to break the silence.

‘You are right. It’s an improvement,’ Sherlock replies, nodding, and it’s unclear whether he is referring to the strawberry or their relationship.

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to sport a droplet of chocolate on the corner of his mouth, and John gasps for air. He has never been this hungry for anyone or anything in his life. Surely he can afford a moment of weakness? Even if he regrets it down the road. Surely he can blame Sherlock for playing with fire and getting burnt. A second later, his tongue is wiping the chocolate off Sherlock’s face gently as he breathes in Sherlock’s scent, tastes him for the first time. Sherlock reacts by turning his head a little so that their lips touch. They both have to hold onto their respective bowls so that they don’t slide off their laps and onto the floor, especially since one of John’s arms has wrapped around Sherlock’s back and his hand is firmly on Sherlock’s neck as they kiss. It starts out as a chaste kiss, a brushing of lips. John can sense Sherlock’s insecurity. How many people has Sherlock kissed? Has he kissed anyone for real? Janine didn’t count because he had been faking it, although the sight of it had still stung. This kiss is so chaste that there could still be a way out. It could be considered the product of curious experimentation. They could still laugh it off. Except none of them wants to do it, apparently.

The intensity of their chemical reaction has taken John aback. One of Sherlock’s hands touches John’s cheek and at some point their lips part and they are nibbling at each other, tongues lashing out and clashing, and John is afraid of dying of a sugar overdose because Sherlock’s mouth is sweet with the strawberries and the chocolate and, well, _Sherlock_. John is even more puzzled by the sudden rush of emotion that has flooded his heart and shot through his limbs. Sherlock isn’t used to doing this, John can tell, but he learns fast, and their kiss —clumsy at first— evolves into one of the most intense that John has ever experienced. He’s forgotten to breathe, and apparently so has Sherlock, because at some point they let go of each other and just pant. John looks away and waits for guilt to strike, but it doesn’t happen. Nothing so completely wrong has ever felt this right. Sherlock’s cheeks are slightly flushed and he is eating another strawberry nervously, apparently happy to focus on the automatic motions. John has sat back, one hand still touching Sherlock, still running over the fabric of his t-shirt.

‘Sherlock,’ John starts to say, but cuts himself short. They’ve just kissed. What can he possibly say that will make their silence less awkward?

‘It’s alright,’ Sherlock says, his voice not louder than a whisper. ‘You don’t need to say anything. Just make up your mind, John; whatever it is that you want, it suits me fine.’

Does this mean that Sherlock is up to anything? His words come in through John’s ears and seem to have an immediate effect on his crotch. He is aroused beyond belief now. He needs to be rational, but he can’t; and for goodness sake, isn’t Sherlock the rational one? He isn’t supposed to be giving John that kind of look, that come-and-get-me look that John can’t simply ignore because somehow he’s been dreaming of it since the day they met. He has worked so hard to suppress that desperate yearning to be the lucky person who rips off Sherlock’s clothes and sees and touches what no one else has seen or touched. Screw his qualms, then. He can’t walk away from this.

‘I want you,’ John says, as he puts the chocolate dip aside, kneels on the sofa and kisses Sherlock’s neck and the exposed bit of collarbone. Sherlock gasps for air and suddenly the strawberries are out of the way and his hands are on John’s waist, tugging at the hem of his trousers. John is at an advantage now because Sherlock is wearing comfortable, loose clothes and it’s way too easy to slide a hand down the elastic waistband and touch Sherlock’s firm buttocks. Sherlock’s body is distinctly male under his touch but this doesn’t turn him off; this doesn’t make John think that he shouldn’t be fondling a bloke. It is just perfect. It works for him. Sherlock’s fingers are now undoing the buttons of his shirt. John helps him, takes it off and then gets hold of the fabric of Sherlock’s t-shirt and assists Sherlock in removing it. There is a scar at the centre of Sherlock’s pale chest, but John doesn’t want to think of that now, of the bullet he took, of how close he was to dying. If anything, it’s a reminder that they shouldn’t waste any more time. John’s lips trail down the warm flesh, his teeth grazing at Sherlock’s nipple. He can feel Sherlock shuddering under his mouth. Somehow Sherlock is lying on his back now and John is pinning him against the cushions, kissing and licking and touching every inch of skin he can find. At one point, he becomes fully aware of Sherlock’s erection behind the bulge in his pyjama pants. His own hard-on tugs at him mercilessly and he grinds his hips against Sherlock’s, rubbing their cocks together.

‘Take them off,’ Sherlock says, unbuttoning John’s trousers.

‘I don’t… I mean, it could be too much to… You…’ John doesn’t know how to phrase it but what he means to say is that he doesn’t want to frighten Sherlock, who has obviously not done anything like this before.

‘Do it,’ Sherlock insists, and his voice is not pleading but commanding, and John likes it. He can never refuse Sherlock anything.

A minute later, the rest of their clothes are on a heap on the floor. The parts of Sherlock’s anatomy that have remained hidden so far are, well, magnificent, and judging by the good look he’s taking at John, Sherlock doesn’t seem dissatisfied either. Nonetheless, John feels a little self-conscious, aware that his own more mundane physique hardly matches Sherlock’s alien, chiseled, perfect body and long limbs.

‘Do you like me?’ John asks before he can stop himself. Sherlock lets out a nervous chuckle, grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him down for a kiss.

‘I don’t look at anyone else, John,’ he says, and his words ring so true, so raw that John’s heart sinks a little because he shouldn’t _ever_ have looked at anyone else.

‘What do you want me to do?’ John brushes his fingertips against the head of Sherlock’s rock-hard cock. He feels like he could come just looking at the droplets that have already collected there, seeing the effect he has on Sherlock.

‘You are the one who _knows_ what to do, or at least guesses it,’ Sherlock gives him a wry smile. ‘This is… unbearable,’ he points at his crotch as if demanding an explanation.

‘Surely you’ve had a hard-on before?,’ John asks as he takes hold of Sherlock’s cock and starts stroking it slowly. He figures that whatever has the desired effect on his own will work on another guy’s too, and Sherlock’s vocal response confirms it.

‘Yes, I have. More often than seemed reasonable,’ Sherlock says, catching his breath every few words. ‘But it’s not the same with you here. This-this is better.’ John loves the sound, and the sight of Sherlock in this state; his blue eyes are overbrimming with shock, lust and some form of undiluted affection as they seek John’s. One of his hands rubs Sherlock’s cock and his own in turns; John is so close already that he is careful not to do it too fast in order to prolong the pleasure. His other hand cups Sherlock’s balls and a stray finger find its way to Sherlock’s hole and just probes it lightly, which elicits such a loud moan that John silently prays that Mrs Hudson is not home. Good thing that his medical knowledge of male anatomy pays off.   

‘Do that. Do that again. God.’ Sherlock is practically squirming under John’s hands. It’s a little undignified, very much unlike his usual contained self, and a tremendous turn-on, John thinks. John’s finger digs deeper into Sherlock’s body and it feels so warm and tight that he can only imagine how good it would feel if he put his cock in there. It’s too soon, he decides, too much for Sherlock to cope with at once. He removes the finger after twisting it around a little and Sherlock sits up and gently slaps John’s hand away from John’s cock, seizing it himself. John tries to bite back a groan and fails. They are touching each other now and his vision is getting blurry. Sherlock is too good at this, considering, and John guesses he has touched himself more often than anyone would guess. The mental image of Sherlock wanking to thoughts of him is more than John can bear.

They are kneeling so close, facing each other, their thighs touching; Sherlock’s fingers are caressing John’s chest and shoulders even as his other hand works on John’s cock. After a very short time his grip on John’s arm becomes firmer, as if he were holding on to him for support. John is tempted to close his eyes and just let go, but he doesn’t. He can’t miss it. Sherlock utters no warning, just a low note that rises from the back of his throat as his cock jerks and he comes in John’s hand, spilling the white fluid over their stomachs; his head tilts back as he does, and John could swear he’s never seen such ecstasy drawn on the features of another human being. The sight of it is enough to send him over the edge and he strokes himself twice before he climaxes and all but collapses on top of Sherlock, pushing him down so that Sherlock is lying with his back on the seat cushions again, his own orgasm so intense that the world around him spins at a dizzying speed and nothing matters but Sherlock and this little piece of heaven he’s just found.

He loses track of time and when he comes to his senses he grows aware of Sherlock’s lips kissing his brow lazily, Sherlock’s heart pounding in tune with his own. He’s content to lie there and run a hand along Sherlock’s neck, not looking at him because he is suddenly afraid of what he may encounter if he does. None of them speaks for a while. What could he say? Their cards are on the table now and there is no taking back what has just happened. John grows uncomfortably aware of the sticky mess between their bodies. He remembers that a woman is carrying his child right now, and the worst of it is that he can’t recall a moment in which he felt such pleasure, such abandon with this woman.

‘Oh, Christ…’ he mumbles; remorse has finally struck, as he knew it would. He rolls to the side and Sherlock must have noticed because he is not kissing John anymore. He’s looking at the ceiling, probably unsure what to do. It is unfair to point out how wrong this is, John decides. Sherlock hasn’t held back, he has given John what he wanted without reserve. It’s felt good; amazing in fact. Part of him wants the rest of the world to vanish so that they can be here at Baker Street 221B, curled up in this sofa, their hands and mouths and souls merged until they can’t be told apart from each other. Part of him knows he can’t, at least not now; it may be too late.

John looks over Sherlock’s shoulder and spots the forgotten strawberries. He reaches for one, his mind blank, unable to cope.

‘John,’ Sherlock says his name softly, as if it was something incredibly difficult to do.

‘Mmh?’ John can’t manage a better answer, but he finally brings himself to look Sherlock in the eye.

‘I know how you feel now and I’m sorry for adding to your confusion. But I don’t regret this and I don’t think you should, either.’ He’s back to his normal talkative self, it seems. John is slightly relieved.

‘I don’t regret it,’ John says softly, shaking his head slowly. ‘I let it happen. I’ve been stubborn and an idiot, and I can’t fix it now.’

‘Soon,’ Sherlock replies, and his comment is so cryptic that John doesn’t know what to make of it.

Something in Sherlock’s face tells him that there are a few things he hasn’t told John, important things concerning his wife. She is not going to be around for a long time; John has figured as much. Their relationship was built on lies and he doesn’t have it in him to act as if that didn’t matter. Being around Sherlock has been at the top of his priority list since they met and now that he knows they can have this he can’t just shun Sherlock again.

John decides not to be an arsehole about all this. He startles Sherlock by kissing him briefly on the lips and then sits up.

‘We could go out for dinner. I need a shower first though,’ John says.

Sherlock combs his fingers through his dark curls —a gesture that John has always secretly adored—, stretches his arms and shoulders in an almost feline way and nods.    

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started playing out in my head as I used some strawberries to make a cheesecake the other day. It was meant to be shorter, but I hope you like it. In my head, and at least partly thanks to SilentAuror's fix-it fics, Mary is a psycho and she will be out of the boys' way soon...  
> I'm looking for a BETA right now (quid pro quo if you like); please get in touch! ;-)


End file.
